The Substitute Spy
by dust on the wind
Summary: What's a guy supposed to do, when duty calls and nobody else can answer?
1. Chapter 1

_I do not own any of the characters from the series Hogan's Heroes. However, I claim ownership of any original characters appearing in this story._

_Written because Sgt Moffit, reviewing another story, put in a request for Addison to get "a story all his own". _

* * *

"Only six men at roll call again today."

Sergeant Schultz gazed sorrowfully at the handful of prisoners standing outside Barracks 2 in the early morning light, and sighed.

"Are you sure, Schultz?" asked Kinchloe. "Maybe you should count again."

"I don't need to count again," grumbled Schultz. "There are only six of you. Now I have to go into the barracks to make sure everyone else is there."

"You can't just take our word for it?"

"Oh, I would be happy to take your word. But I have to tell the Kommandant that I have counted every man. And I'm a terrible liar."

Kinch shrugged. "Okay, Schultz, it's your choice. Just don't wake anyone who's asleep."

Schultz gave a low-pitched growl, and clomped towards the barracks door, where he paused to cover his mouth and nose with an enormous handkerchief before proceeding indoors. He completed the count in record time, and came scuttling out as fast as he could.

"You can't outrun germs, Schultz," remarked Olsen laconically.

Walters snickered. "Schultz can't outrun anything."

"Schultz can't run at all," added Brodkin, with a lazy smirk. Addison, as usual, didn't say a word, but his eyes were bright with laughter.

"Jolly jokers," muttered Schultz, and turned to give his report to Colonel Klink, who was crossing the parade ground. "All present and accounted for, _Herr Kommandant_."

Klink stopped at a safe distance. "Are you certain, Schultz?"

"_Jawohl, Herr Kommandant_. I went into the barracks and checked."

"Just as well." Klink squinted at the half-dozen men on parade. "I'll speak to Sergeant Kinchloe. The rest of you, dismissed. Tell me, sergeant - no, don't come any closer - how is Colonel Hogan this morning?"

"He was still sleeping when Schultz called us out," replied Kinch gravely. "It looks like he's over the worst, but some of the other men are still pretty sick."

"I'm sure they are." Klink's monocle gleamed in the sunlight. "You know the trouble with your Allied soldiers? Your decadent way of life has made you all weak. One little head cold and you fall down like ninepins. Whereas our fine German men are in such splendid physical condition that they are able to resist..."

He broke off in a squeak of alarm, at the sound of an almighty sneeze from Schultz.

"Yes, sir. Splendid physical condition," said Kinch. "Which reminds me, how's Lieutenant Bergman doing? And Captain Gruber? And the men in Guard Barracks B?"

The Kommandant scowled. "Dismissed. No, Schultz, don't come near me." He executed a swift retreat towards his office, leaving the German and American sergeants staring after him.

Schultz blew his nose. "What's wrong with the big shot?" he mumbled from behind the handkerchief.

"Maybe he's coming down with something," said Kinch. "Excuse me, Schultz, the medic's here."

He met Sergeant Wilson at the door of the barracks. "What's the situation this morning?" asked Wilson.

"Well, LeBeau's temperature is down, but Newkirk's is up," replied Kinch. "And Carter keeps complaining that he can't sleep, because the pirates are making so much noise."

"Is he delirious?"

"He'd better be." Kinch opened the door of the barracks, but paused before entering. "Maybe you should take a look at Colonel Hogan first," he said.

"Worried about him?"

"No, I think he's doing okay, but not well enough to get back to work. Trouble is, if anything urgent comes up, and he knows the boys are all still bedridden, he's likely to want to go himself. I can't make him stay put, but he'll listen to you."

Wilson gave him a mildly exasperated glare. "Since when did anybody in this barracks ever listen to me? Okay, Kinch, I'll see what I can do." He went on into Hogan's quarters, with Kinch at his heels.

Hogan, drowsing in the lower bunk, half-opened his eyes as the door opened, then carefully raised himself up onto one elbow. "Well, there's only one of you this morning, Wilson, so I must be on the mend," he said.

"You're making sense, anyway," replied Wilson. "You were a little out of it for a day or so."

"I was?"

Wilson sat on the edge of the bed, and rummaged in his canvas medical kitbag for his thermometer. "Hold this under your tongue. Yep, we had a couple of real interesting conversations. I'm pretty sure you thought I was someone else." He held up a hand at the first sign of a question on Hogan's lips. "Don't talk. If you bite that thermometer in half, you'll end up with mercury poisoning. What's more, I'd have to get another one from somewhere, and they're not easy to come by."

He took Hogan's wrist to check the pulse. "Sure would like to meet this Dianne some time. Sounds like she's quite a gal," he went on, in a meditative tone. Kinch tried to hide a smile, and after a few seconds Hogan's eyes narrowed with laughter.

"Actually, her name's Denise," he said, as soon as the thermometer was removed. "And you're right, she's a real stunner. Black hair, blue eyes, skin like silk..."

"Steady, Colonel. You're still convalescing," said Wilson.

Hogan gave a soft chuckle, which ended in a cough, and Kinch frowned slightly. "That doesn't sound so good," he said.

"It's better than it was before," murmured Hogan. "Well, how about it, Wilson? Can I get up?"

"Yeah, but take it easy for a few days," replied Wilson. "No excitement. Find a comfortable place outdoors, get a bit of sunshine, stick to simple food - by the way, if LeBeau's sick, who's cooking?"

"Addison," said Kinch. "So don't worry, it'll be simple, all right. But he'll have to go into Hammelburg for supplies. We're low on everything. Of course, we could steal from the Krauts, but they're on short commons right now, too. Mostly pork knuckles and sauerkraut, going by the smell from the mess hall. I don't think that's what you had in mind."

"Not even close." Wilson stood up. "I'll have a talk to Addison before he goes. But first I better check on Carter - is that a sea shanty he's singing?"

"I guess he decided, if you can't beat 'em, join 'em," remarked Kinch.

As the medic left the room, Hogan sat up. "What's that about Carter?"

A touch of anxiety shaded his voice, and Kinch hastened to reassure him. "He's all right, Colonel. He's just wandering a bit. Kind of like you did, only without the beautiful women. Easy, now."

Hogan had staggered a little as he got to his feet. "I'm okay, Kinch," he said. "Just need to get my land legs back. I'll be fine once I've had a cup of coffee, and a shave." He ran his fingers across his chin.

"I'll get you some hot water." Kinch retreated to the main barracks to fetch the kettle which stood on the stove, simmering quietly. Someone had put the coffee pot on next to it, but it wasn't ready yet.

Wilson was stooping over Carter, checking his pulse rate. From the crease between the medic's eyebrows, he wasn't pleased about it.

"_Toora-loora-loora-li, toora-loora-loora-li, yo, ho, it makes me wonder_," sang Carter, in a soft, sleepy voice which somehow managed to stay on pitch.

Newkirk uttered a groan, and turned over to glare down at his mate in the lower bunk. "Carter, put a sock in it," he croaked. "You're really starting to get on my wick."

"It wasn't me who started it," protested Carter. "It was..."

"I don't care who started it. One more peep out of you, and I'll be the one to end it."

"Careful there," said Wilson, pushing the Englishman back to a safer position. "You're going to fall off that bunk if you keep leaning over like that. Anyway, Carter's feverish. You can't expect him to be rational."

"He's never been bleedin' rational," Newkirk grumbled. "Just because he's hearing things that aren't there is no reason the rest of us should suffer. It's bad enough having that bloody great herd of rhinoceros thumping round the place, without Carter and his imaginary pirates making even more of a row."

"Uh-huh," murmured the medic. "Well, we can fix that. Can some of you fellers chase those rhinos out?"

Kinch suppressed a sigh. It looked like things weren't getting back to normal any time soon.

He took the kettle back to the office, where Hogan had almost finished dressing. "Coffee's coming right up," he said. "Anything else I can do?"

"You can bring me up to date," replied Hogan. "What's been happening with operations?"

"We've had to lie low, Colonel." Kinch read dissatisfaction in Hogan's eye, and hastened to explain further. "Practically everyone in Barracks 2 and 3 has been sick, plus a few other guys around camp as well. The Underground are supposed to be handling any Allied airmen who turn up, and everything else is on hold."

Hogan had started working up a shaving lather, but his hand stopped moving. "Supposed to be?"

"Well, we haven't had radio contact for a few days," replied Kinch. "But that's no surprise, seeing we've been out of action. They won't risk using the radio just to send get-well messages. Addison's going into Hammelburg, and he'll have to call in at the grocer's. He can get an update from Max while he's there."

"Okay. Give him the recognition code, and tell him to stay out of trouble," said Hogan; then, as he caught Kinch's eye, he laughed. "Yeah, I know. It's Addison."

Kinch was chuckling, too. For once, they didn't have to worry. If there was one man in Stalag 13 who could be trusted to keep himself out of trouble, Addison was the man.

* * *

_Note: __Carter's "sea shanty" is nothing of the kind. To see what it actually is, go to YouTube and search for "Friends of the Castanet Club". And don't blame me if you don't like what you find._


	2. Chapter 2

Getting out of camp during the day was never easy, but the prisoners usually found a way. In this instance, having most of Barracks 2 laid up gave them an advantage; it meant they were not available to take care of the Kommandant's car trouble.

"Seems the motor's been making a rattling noise, like something in there is loose," explained Kinch. "As a matter of fact, something is, but it's not part of the motor. Carter dropped a wrench into the engine bay the last time he did some work on it, and he couldn't get it out. Klink thinks it's a mechanical fault, and he wants it fixed, but he can't wait till the boys are well enough to do it. He won't send it to the Luftwaffe depot, because they'll keep it and send him some worn-out old crock in exchange. So he's ordered Schultz to take it to a repair ship in Hammelburg."

"And Addison can go along for the ride," said Hogan. In compliance with the medic's instructions, he had found a comfortable place to sit outside the barracks and bask in the sunshine while Kinch gave him the run-down on the plan.

"Right. The guards on the gate won't look too closely at the car if Schultz is driving, and Addison can come home in the dog truck tonight. I've already set it up with Schnitzer." Kinch sounded confident, but he couldn't help feeling a little anxious as he waited for his chief's verdict on the plan.

But Hogan just grinned. "Well, we've gotten away with worse," he said. "Okay, Kinch, go ahead."

The staff car was standing outside the Kommandant's office, waiting for Schultz. All they had to do was sneak Addison into the back seat; and that, as Carter would have said if he was in his right mind, was a piece of pie.

Litter patrol made the perfect cover. Armed with canvas bags and spikes, the half-dozen men still on their feet spread out across the yard. As Schultz came out of the office and plodded down the steps, Kinch strolled up to meet him. "Hey, Schultz, since you're going into Hammelburg, can I get you to pick up a suit from the cleaners?"

"I don't have time to run errands for prisoners," said Schultz. "You'll have to wait until the next time I...wait a minute. You have a suit at the cleaners?"

"No, but you can just pick out any old suit. They won't miss it." Kinch turned to Walters and Brodkin, who were working nearby. "You guys need anything from the cleaners?"

"I could use a new overcoat," said Walters. "Maybe a couple of good shirts, in case I want to go somewhere nice."

"You want a sweater if you're going out. The girls always go for a man in a sweater," observed Brodkin.

Kinch nodded thoughtfully. "Good point. Tell you what, Schultz, grab a selection. And try to get the sizes right, we don't want to have to send you back."

Schultz pursed up his lips. Behind his back, Addison and Olsen were working very close to the staff car, but he remained oblivious. "Anything else?" he asked sweetly. "Some nice silk pyjamas, or a - a smoking jacket, perhaps?"

"Sure, why not?" said Kinch. "You never know when they might come in handy."

Walters folded his arms, and tilted his head. "I reckon Schultz'd look good in a smoking jacket."

"Not a chance," scoffed Brodkin. "There ain't nobody got enough red velvet for that."

Schultz's good-natured baby face wrinkled into petulance. "Go and finish cleaning up the compound. You have already made me late. I should be already halfway to Hammelburg."

"Don't worry, Schultz. You'll still have time to call into the Hofbrau while the car's getting fixed," replied Kinch.

Schultz growled under his breath, and turned around; but the diversion had lasted long enough for Addison to slip into the back of the car and hide himself under the rug Klink kept in there for the cold weather. Only Olsen remained in sight, carefully polishing the door handle with a cloth. The guard squinted at him. "And just what are you up to, Olsen?"

"What's it look like, Schultz?" replied Olsen.

"Well, whatever it is, stop it." Schultz peered at him again, a little more closely. "Why do you have two litter spikes?"

Olsen glanced at the two poles in his hand. "You want me to get the job done twice as fast, or not?"

"That's very smart, Olsen. At least one of you knows how to use his head." Schultz swept a sternly reproving look towards the other men. "Now, get on with it, all of you, and make sure you don't miss any pieces of rubbish." With a final disapproving grunt, he opened the door, squeezed his substantial mass into the driver's seat, and started the car.

Addison kept his head down, and tried not to breathe too loudly. If any of the guards spotted him crouched under the rug, the least he could expect was an extended stay in the cooler. But Kinch had judged it right; the sentry, seeing Schultz behind the wheel, couldn't wait to throw the gate wide open. Sometimes it was just too easy.

The drive to Hammelburg seemed to take longer than Addison had expected; but finally, the car slowed, turned sharply and jerked to a stop, and Schultz heaved himself out. Addison waited a few seconds before he pushed back the rug, and raised his head just enough to see out of the window.

The car stood halfway inside the entrance of the garage, a position which would make it easier to get out of the car without being seen by anyone in the street or the workshop. Schultz stood a few feet away, chatting to a chubby middle-aged man in grubby overalls. It would probably take them a couple of minutes to finish with the social amenities and get down to business; and a couple of minutes were all Addison would need.

Keeping low, he wriggled out of his uniform jacket, extracted a lightweight mackintosh from the canvas litter bag, then rolled up the bag and the discarded jacket and pushed them under the seat. Then he eased open the door furthest from Schultz, slid out of the car, and slipped out of the workshop and onto the street.

As expected, Schultz had brought the car to Gebrüder Kinkelmann, on Engelstraße; neither the best nor the cheapest motor garage in town, but the nearest to the Hofbrau. It was also within easy walking distance of the grocer's shop. Addison took a few moments to recall the directions Kinch had given him, before setting off in what he hoped was the right direction.

It gave him an odd feeling, strolling through Hammelburg as if he belonged there; a mixture of apprehension and exhilaration, like a kid playing truant. All of this was new to him. He walked briskly, glancing sideways at the flat-fronted, brightly painted buildings, with their neatly shuttered windows and mansard roofs, and for the first time since he'd arrived at Stalag 13, it really seemed as though he was in a foreign country.

Of course, the dozens of Nazi flags, displayed in windows and hanging from lamp-posts, kind of wrecked the picture-postcard look. Newkirk and LeBeau never mentioned stuff like that whenever they talked about their trips to town. But then, they mostly just talked about the girls.

_I don't blame them_, thought Addison. Even for a married man, the lack of female companionship made for something of an obsession with the subject. In fact, he sometimes thought it was worse for him than for the single guys. They only had temptation to deal with, and no guilt if they fell. Not that there was much chance of that happening; he never got sent out on assignments in Hammelburg, or anywhere else for that matter.

Ten minutes brought Addison to his destination, a perfectly ordinary greengrocer's shop, halfway along a narrow, busy street. He paused outside for a moment, peering in through the window. There were no customers, and the proprietor was busy rearranging his potatoes. This must be Max, the Underground contact. Addison took a deep breath and went inside.

"Can I help you?" said Max, positioning the last potato with care, and wiping his hands on his apron.

"Uh...yes. Is this Friedrich-Schiller-Straße 27?" Even though Addison was only here to buy vegetables, his throat tightened as he gave the recognition code, and his voice came out at a higher pitch than he expected.

Max didn't miss a beat, although his crumpled, irregular countenance displayed signs of surprise. "No, this is Johann-Wolfgang-von-Goethe-Straße 37."

"I'm looking for Wallenstein's Restaurant," Addison went on. "I hear they serve a very good _Wiener Schnitzel _there."

"Yes, it's excellent. But the _Sauerbraten _at Young Werther's is even better."

No wonder LeBeau hated the filthy _Boche_. Not only had they started this lousy war; on top of that, all they ever seemed to eat was _Sauerbraten_ and _Schnitzel_.

Max lowered his voice. "You are from Stalag 13? I've never seen you before."

"I'm mostly on the substitute bench," replied Addison shortly.

"What is the latest news from camp? How is Colonel Hogan?"

"Getting better. Some of the others are still pretty sick. Anything going on in town?"

Max frowned, his visage wrinkling like an overcooked baked apple. "Nothing important, apart from the security services being busier than usual. Probably something to do with the Air Ministry briefing at Luftwaffe headquarters."

Addison gave him a quick, questioning glance. It sounded like something Colonel Hogan would want to know about. But Max, catching the look, explained further: "No need for Colonel Hogan to get involved. Our contacts in London know about the situation at Stalag 13, so they've assigned one of their other agents to meet with an informant in the Ministry who is ready to pass on all the details. It must be a sensitive matter, because we were warned not to interfere unless their man asks for help."

"Well, I guess they know what they're doing," said Addison, relieved. The last thing Hogan needed now, with all his best men on sick call, was an unexpected intelligence mission. "I have to get supplies. We're almost out of food, and we can't feed sick men on camp rations."

A beaming smile broke across the shopkeeper's craggy face. "You've come on the right day. Only this morning, I had no less than three deliveries from local vegetable farmers. Most of it is still out the back, and I can let you have as much as..." He broke off, as the bell on the door tinkled. Instinctively, Addison drew back, turning to look at the newcomer. He looked harmless; an anxious-looking little man dressed like a waiter, who entered hastily, came to a sudden halt as he realised Max wasn't alone, and abruptly became very interested in the grocer's fine display of turnips.

Max gave an exaggerated sigh. "Hallo, Willie," he said. "It's safe to talk. This is one of Colonel Hogan's men."

The waiter blinked at Addison. "_Guten Tag. _Very...very pleased to meet you." He swallowed nervously, and wrung his hands. "Max, we have an emergency. The British agent who was on his way to Hammelburg has been delayed. He will not be here in time to meet his contact. Someone else will have to make the rendezvous."

"_Donnerwetter_," growled Max. "When is this meeting supposed to happen?"

Willie glanced at his watch. "In one hour, at the _Lustgarten_. Our man must be dressed as a captain of the Luftwaffe, and be carrying a copy of the _Berliner Morgenpost_. I do not see how we can find someone in time, and it is impossible for either of us to do it. I might be recognised by someone who knows me, and you are too old for a Luftwaffe captain."

"_Danke schön_." Max's eyebrows drew in, as he considered the problem, while Willie gazed at him with anxious blue eyes. They both reached the solution at the same moment, and turned towards the only man available who could stand in for the missing agent.

_Oh, nuts_, thought Addison. He could hardly refuse to help, but he hadn't expected this. His shopping trip had just turned into his first ever mission.

* * *

_Note: both Max and Willie are canon, but from different episodes_


	3. Chapter 3

Twenty-five minutes had passed since the appointed hour, and it seemed to Addison as if there was nobody else in the park at all. So far, not a single soul had crossed his path. Not unless he counted the squirrel.

He had arrived in plenty of time, and had waited in front of the pavilion by the lake, wearing an ill-fitting Luftwaffe uniform supplied by Max, prominently displaying a two-month-old copy of the _Morgenpost_. But there was no sign of his contact.

Addison had no idea what the guy looked like. Willie had told him the man's code name, Flycatcher, and that he would recognise Addison by his Luftwaffe uniform and newspaper, and make the approach. He would identify himself by a recognition code: _May I borrow your umbrella? _To which, Addison had to reply, _It's not mine, I'm holding it for a friend. _He didn't even have an umbrella; that was the point.

He'd gone over it in his head until he was convinced he'd never forget it as long as he lived. He was as ready as he could possibly be; but Flycatcher was nowhere in sight.

The heat of the afternoon sun had grown oppressive, especially given the unaccustomed weight of his borrowed uniform. Even though he was standing on the shady side of the pavilion, the perspiration had him itching all over.

The squirrel had made him sweat, too. It had appeared some ten minutes after he had arrived, scampering down a tree trunk on the opposite side of the gravel path, and leaping onto the low wire fence which kept visitors from straying onto the flower beds. For almost a minute it had balanced there, staring at him without blinking, until he had found himself wondering whether it might be a Gestapo man in a really good disguise.

_I must be going crazy,_ he thought; and with sudden impatience, he waved his newspaper at the creature, with a deep-chested growl of "_Raus_!" The squirrel chittered back, launched itself off the fence, twisted in midair and bounded off in the direction from which it had come. It was pretty darned nimble for a Gestapo agent.

Since then, he'd had the place to himself.

How long was he supposed to wait before he could safely assume Flycatcher wasn't coming? For all he knew, the guy might never turn up. He could end up hanging round here all afternoon, and any minute the squirrel could come back with reinforcements.

"Get a grip, Henry," he told himself, out loud.

Maybe he was in the wrong place. He was pretty sure this little trellis-enclosed wooden structure was the pavilion Willie had told him to find. But which side of an octagonal building was the front, anyway? He knew, because he'd checked, that there were two entrances, each with a little set of steps leading inside; one faced the path where he was standing, the other looked out on the lake. Perhaps that was where Flycatcher was expecting to find him.

Folding his newspaper under his arm, he strolled around the outside of the pavilion till he reached the opposite side. Nobody was waiting there, either. He stayed there for a couple of minutes, but the lack of shade, and the glare of sunlight on the shallow water, didn't encourage lingering, so he started back towards the path, pausing to look back at a sudden rustle of branches from the nearby shrubbery. It proved to be nothing more than a startled pigeon taking wing. He couldn't see what had frightened it, and kept his eyes on the bushes as he took a few more steps.

The person hurrying along the path wasn't paying any more attention than Addison, so the collision was unavoidable.

Addison staggered, but managed to keep his feet. The young woman wasn't quite so lucky; uttering something between a squeak and a hiccough, she tottered back two steps before overbalancing and landing with a decided bump, right in the middle of the pathway.

He rushed to help her up, stammering an apology. But the lady appeared quite prepared to take her share of the blame: "No, please, it was my fault. I was the one not watching where I was going - so careless of me - I was in a hurry - I beg your pardon..."

Her exclamations trailed off, as she took in his uniform, and the crumpled newspaper still lying on the ground. She went pink, then assumed an air of would-be nonchalance, and addressed him in a rather high-pitched voice: "If you please, sir, may I borrow your umbrella?"

"It's not mine. I'm holding it for a friend," Addison replied, just like he'd been told to. Somehow he wasn't surprised; from the stories Newkirk and LeBeau brought back, he'd long ago come to the conclusion that, one way or another, there always seemed to be a woman involved. This one wasn't bad-looking, though not a patch on his Jen, back home in the States. She had a bit too much of the big-boned Germanic look about her for his taste. It was kind of a shame about her nose, too.

At his response, she gave a sigh of relief. "I was afraid I was too late, and you would already have gone. Please forgive me for keeping you waiting. You see, it was the hats."

She delivered her _non sequitur_ as if it made perfect sense. Addison's brow furrowed; she wasn't wearing a hat. He wasn't about to ask, but she seemed aware of his confusion, and rushed into an explanation. "When I left the hotel, someone followed me. I thought he might have been a Gestapo man, so I went into a shop - the _Kaufhaus_ on the main square - and pretended I was looking at hats. I think I tried on every hat they had, waiting for a chance to slip away. If he had not been distracted by the lingerie display nearby, I might still be there." She paused, then added thoughtfully, "He must have spent some time on the Russian Front. I have never before seen a man looking with such passion at long woollen underwear."

Addison couldn't tell whether she was joking, or perfectly serious. He let it go, and got down to business: "Do you have something for me?"

"Yes. But it's complicated, and I have to explain."

The last word Addison wanted to hear right now was _complicated_. But he braced himself. "Go on."

She leaned closer, and spoke in a conspiratorial undertone. "I should tell you first that the information I have for you comes from my brother. His name is Hugo Hoffnung, and he is an aircraft engineer. For the last two years, he has been working on a development project. They are designing the Crow, a new type of long-range bomber."

Addison felt a chill go down his spine. Even though he wasn't as clued up as some of the other guys, it didn't take a military genius to figure out what "long-range" implied.

"Until now," the girl went on, "my brother has done all he can to create disruptions and delays, so that resources and materials could be wasted without any real results. But in spite of everything, they have made progress, and a prototype is now being tested. Hugo has been called to Hammelburg to give a progress report on to a committee from the Air Ministry. If they approve the design, it will go into production before the end of the year."

She glanced around, then opened her purse and extracted an envelope. "The location of the testing site, and of the factories where the bombers will be built," she murmured. "If the Allies can bomb them now, it will set the project back by years."

"Thanks," Addison murmured. "I'll make sure it gets to the right people."

"But there is a problem," she added. "Hugo only learned today that there is a rival project, Firebird, which is also under consideration. The project manager and head designer of Firebird are also in Hammelburg to make their presentation, and we won't know until tomorrow which one has been approved. If the Firebird is chosen, the information I have just given you will be of no use at all."

"I guess not." Addison studied the envelope in his hand, frowning. "Once you find out, can you get word to London?"

"It will not be easy. We have no contacts here, and the Gestapo are watching our every move." She gazed at him thoughtfully for a few moments, then gave a decisive nod. "There is only one way. You must meet me for dinner tomorrow, at the hotel. I will know by then whether production of the Crow is to go ahead."

"Tomorrow?" Addison almost dropped the precious envelope. She had to be kidding.

Apparently she wasn't. "You will find me at the Hauserhof," she said, as she turned to leave. "Be there at seven. I never eat late at night, it's bad for my digestion."

"But...now, just hold on, _Fräulein_," he broke out indignantly. "You know how much trouble I went through to get here today? Now you want me to come into town again tomorrow?"

Her forehead crinkled as she considered his viewpoint. "If it is too difficult for you, I suppose we could try to get a message out once we return home. But it could be weeks, or even months, before we get the chance. Still, if that is what we must do...I only hope it won't be too late."

She finished with a theatrical sigh, and a dejected droop of her shoulders which didn't fool Addison for a second. All the same, he felt himself wavering, because she had a point. This was a big deal, and the brass in London, if they had any sense at all, would be pretty keen to wipe out the whole project without delay. But they sure wouldn't want to risk planes and crews by bombing the wrong site. The sooner they knew for sure, the better.

As for what Hogan would say - well, he was going to hit the roof anyway, as soon as he found out what Addison had gotten up to on his day out. But once he cooled off, what were the chances of him letting something like this slip?

It would be the colonel's call. But in the meantime, Addison still had to come up with something kind of answer, and he'd better make it a good one.

"Look, I can't make any promises," he said at last. "But I'll see what I can do."

* * *

Notes:

According to Wikipedia, the German Air Ministry had a project to design and build a long-range heavy strategic bomber capable of reaching the continental United States. Various aircraft designs were proposed for the _Amerika Bomber _project, but it never came to anything.

Hauserhof or Hausnerhof? For the sake of consistency with my other stories, I've gone with the former.

I borrowed Sgt. Moffitt's choice of Henry, from her very thoughtful story "Buddies", as Addison's first name, because what else could it be?


	4. Chapter 4

"I don't like it," said Hogan.

"Neither do I," muttered LeBeau, glowering at Addison. "There's too much liquid in it, and you're boiling it too fast. _Pot-au-feu_ needs to be simmered very gently, for as long as possible."

It was on the tip of Addison's tongue to defend the mixture of meat, vegetables and liquid bubbling gently on the stove, but he pressed his lips together and swallowed the insult. After all, Louis had only just reached the sitting-up stage of convalescence, so he was bound to be a bit testy. In any case, Hogan's opinion was the one which mattered; and Hogan wasn't talking about the stew.

The previous evening, after listening in grim silence to Addison's faltering account of his day out, he had uttered a single, exasperated resolution: _That's the last time I let a married man out of camp without a chaperone. _

All morning, he had been noticeably preoccupied, his inner disquiet manifesting in a deep crease between his eyebrows, and a tightness around his mouth. He hadn't yet decided whether to allow the second meeting with Flycatcher to go ahead; but he looked like he wasn't happy about it, and Addison thought it prudent to keep his head down.

The other prisoners seemed to find the whole situation hilarious, which just made things worse. Addison's only comfort was that so far Newkirk had been feeling too poorly to join in; but like LeBeau, he was on the mend, so it wouldn't be long.

"It's not that big a deal, Colonel," remarked Olsen, lounging at his ease in the open doorway, his eyes on the woods outside the fence. "I mean, the Hauserhof's a pretty safe place for a meeting. The staff don't ask questions, and Willie's on hand if there's trouble."

"I've seen Willie in action," replied Hogan, his eyes glinting. "After seeing how cool and level-headed he was when the place _wasn't_ full of Luftwaffe big-wigs and Gestapo men..."

"Keelhaul the scurvy dogs, and splice their main-braces to the beakhead," mumbled Carter. His temperature had come down during the night, but he hadn't yet quite found his way back to reality; every now and then he broke the surface of sleep, uttered a few vaguely nautical-sounding phrases, and drifted off again.

"Okay, Carter. We'll be sure to do that," said Hogan.

The bunk above the tunnel entrance ascended with its usual squeak and rattle, and Kinch ascended. "I finally got through to London, Colonel. Hugo Hoffnung checks out. He's been working for British intelligence since the beginning of the war, and a couple of years ago he managed to get himself attached to this long-range bomber project, so he could keep tabs on its progress as well as gathering intelligence for our side."

"What about the sister?" asked Hogan.

"Her name's Katharina. She keeps house for him, and acts as a go-between with their Underground contacts."

Hogan's frown deepened. "Any instructions about the meeting tonight?"

"London say it's to go ahead. And they don't just want to know whether Hoffnung's project has gotten approval. They're asking for as much information as we can get on the other project, the Firebird. And when I say _asking for_...well, put it this way, Addison better not miss his dinner date."

Addison, preparing to give a gentle stirring to the watery stew, dropped the spoon, which landed with a splash. He retrieved it without taking his eyes off the colonel, scalding his fingers in the process.

Hogan sighed. "That's just what I expected."

"I don't get it, Colonel," said Kinch. "Getting hold of that information is going to be tough - and risky. It's not a one-man job, either. Seems to me it would make sense to wait till we know for sure whether the Firebird's going ahead."

"Actually, it makes more sense not to wait," said Hogan, leaning back and hooking his thumbs into his jacket pockets. "In the first place, it'll be easier to get it now, while the guys in charge are in Hammelburg. They're making a pitch, so you can bet they've put together some kind of dossier to present to the brass from Berlin. It's all there, if only we can get our hands on it. In the second place, even if Hoffnung's bomber is picked for production, and Allied Command sends over a few bombers and puts it out of business, that's not the end of it. The Nazis will just switch to plan B - the Firebird."

"So the plan is to hit both at the same time."

"Right. We've got the key locations for one of them. All we need is the same details for the other one. This Air Ministry briefing gives us a chance of getting that information. In fact, it may be the only chance we get."

"You think maybe Hoffnung might know where Firebird's based?" said Kinch.

"I doubt it, since he's working on a rival project. It's not going to be quite that simple." Hogan fell into a brief reverie, studying Addison with a critical eye. Gradually, the corners of his mouth turned up. "Hoffnung and his sister are staying at the Hauserhof. I wonder if the other guys are there, too."

Unsure whether this was a question, or whether a reply was expected, Addison hesitated before answering, very quietly: "She didn't say."

"Our radio contact in Hammelburg can probably find out," Kinch put in. He glanced at his watch. "He's usually receiving about this time. What's the plan, Colonel?"

But Hogan didn't answer Kinch's question. He stood up a little too quickly, and had to grab the edge of the table to steady himself. Addison dropped the spoon again, and started forward, as did most of the other men, but Hogan held up a hand to stop them. "I'm okay. Just overbalanced for a second."

He swept the barracks with a look which discouraged any further display of concern. "I'll come down to the radio room, Kinch," he said. Every eye followed him as he strode across to the tunnel entrance, stepped onto the ladder and descended. Kinch, shaking his head in resignation, followed.

"Down among the dead men, forty fathoms deep," muttered Carter.

"It ain't that kind of treasure hunt, Andrew," said Olsen. "Go back to sleep."

Carter subsided, and for the next couple of minutes, not a word was spoken, until Addison slapped the lid back onto the pot of stew, and turned on Walters. "What?"

"Nothing," replied Walters. "Just wondering why you're holding out on us."

From his bunk at the end of the barracks, Brodkin chimed in. "Me, too. Forget all that stuff about crows and firebugs - how come you skipped over the important part?"

"I thought that was the important part," said Addison.

"Yeah, sure it is. But we want to hear about the girl." Walters folded his arms, and smirked at him. "Come clean, Addison. What's she like?"

"I only talked to her for three minutes. How should I know what she's like?" But Addison could feel the blush rising in his cheeks. He leaned over the stove, adjusting the lid on the stew pot, hoping nobody would notice.

Fat chance of that. Olsen laughed under his breath, Brodkin shook his head in mock disapproval, and even Newkirk rolled over to look at Addison, a gleam of interest in his eyes.

"At least tell us what she looks like. Is she pretty?" Walters persisted.

LeBeau answered that one: "When there's a war on, every woman is beautiful."

"That's deep, LeBeau. And kind of disturbing." Brodkin got up from his bunk and strolled forward. "Don't hold out on us, Henry. Everyone knows the only girl you're interested in is the one back home, but some of us ain't so lucky."

"Maybe there's more to it that he wants to admit." The interjection came in hoarse tones from Newkirk. "You know what they say, a bird in the hand..."

"There ain't nothing to it," Addison snapped.

"Then no harm in telling us about the girl, is there?" Apparently Newkirk was feeling a lot better.

They weren't going to let it go. Addison gave an impatient sigh. "Blonde, tall, nice figure if you like the Strength-Through-Joy type. Got a face a bit like a horse."

There was a moment of contemplative silence, before Walters said what everyone was thinking: "Some guys have all the luck."

* * *

_Note: contrary to LeBeau's assumption, the stew is not a pot-au-feu, but a Welsh cawl. _


	5. Chapter 5

From the outside, the much-talked-of Hotel Hauserhof didn't look like anything special.

Addison stared at it, as the staff car (cured of its annoying engine-bay rattle) drove slowly past. As usual, he kept this thoughts to himself; but the man in guard's uniform sitting beside the driver had no reservations about stating his opinion: "I think I stayed in a place like that once, in Toledo. It sure doesn't look classy enough for a bunch of top brass from Berlin."

"Well, they don't have many other options," replied the driver. "The Alte Residenz got bombed out, and according to the Gestapo, the Grindelwald is the favourite hotel for spies and Underground members. The Hauserhof's clean and respectable, it's small enough so security's pretty easy to manage, and they've got a good chef. And we all know how important that is, when it comes to the big boys." He finished with a soft chuckle; Walters snorted, and even Addison managed a smile.

It had come as an enormous relief when he found out he wasn't going into the wolves' lair without any kind of support. Walters was just as inexperienced as he was, but he'd never let a buddy down, that was for sure. As for Olsen, he'd been Hogan's outside man since the earliest days of the operation, and he knew his way around a dangerous situation. In fact, Addison thought it would have been a better plan for Olsen to take his place at dinner with Fräulein Hoffnung; but when he had very tentatively suggested it, Hogan had vetoed the idea on the spot.

"She's expecting to see the same man she met before. Better not confuse her by sending someone else. Olsen's job is to get his hands on any documents that might give us the location of the Firebird project, and that's going to work better if he's a free agent. Besides, seeing as Wilson won't let me go, Olsen's in charge of this assignment, so I don't want him getting distracted because he's with a pretty young _Fräulein_."

Coming from Hogan, it was a bit rich; but Addison, unsure whether the source of the colonel's displeasure was Olsen, the medic or himself, had listened to his inner voice of prudence, and let it go.

So now, here he was, back in Hammelburg in the guise of a Luftwaffe officer. This time his uniform had come from the Stalag 13 wardrobe, and although it fitted better than the last one, and was made of higher quality fabric, he still felt itchy. The promotion to major which had come with the costume switch didn't make it any better.

Walters was watching him in the rear-view mirror. "Hey, Olsen, if a guy can be court-martialled for impersonating an officer, and shot for impersonating a Kraut, what d'you think Addison could get for doing both?"

"Careful, Walters. Get him riled and you could end up on the next train to Leningrad," said Olsen.

_Cut it out, guys_, thought Addison, but he didn't say it out loud.

Presently the car turned off the main road, then into a narrow cobbled laneway which ran behind a long brick building, certainly industrial in its utilitarian design, but with broken windows and a general air of neglect which indicated it had long been vacant.

"That's the old _Freie Presse_ printery," said Olsen. "The Nazis shut them down years ago, and it's been empty ever since."

"It's kind of creepy," remarked Walters.

"Yeah, but it's a safe place to leave the car." Olsen opened the door and stepped out onto the cobbles. "Max's place isn't far away. Addison, you're the officer, so you go in front. And for Pete's sakes, try to look the part. You go around town with that hangdog look on your face, you're gonna get us all arrested. You can act like a _Luftwaffe _officer for a couple of minutes, right? Just pretend you're an egotistical jerk with a real bad attitude." He grinned at the sudden flash in Addison's eyes. "That's more like it.

Addison glowered at him, then with his chin up and his shoulders back, strode off towards the end of the laneway, leaving his two temporary subordinates to choke down their sniggers and fall in behind.

The grocer's shop, warm with the light of the late afternoon sun, still gave Addison a chill, as if he'd somehow wandered into one of those recurring dreams; the kind which never end well. It was just too ordinary, with its heaps of cabbages and apples, the miscellany of canned goods stacked on shelves, the _Würste_ hanging from the walls; it seemed more like the starting point for a picnic than for a dangerous mission which could end up changing the course of the war.

Max, whisking a broom across the floor, looked up as the door opened. For a moment, Addison wondered whether he was meant to go through all that recognition-code rigmarole again. But the grocer just turned to the woman behind the counter, a cosy, middle-aged _Frau_ who must be his wife. "Mathilde, look after the shop for a few minutes," he said. Then he beckoned to his visitors. "This way."

He led the way through a curtained-off doorway at the back of the shop, along a short passage and into a dimly-lit store-room, airy and cool, and filled with subtle but unmistakable smells; a mixture of earthiness, green leaves, and the sweet esters of just-ripened fruit. As they entered, a man who had been pacing the floor stopped in his tracks to stare at them, very much in the manner of a startled dormouse. Apparently Willie's usual state of existence entailed a certain degree of twitchiness.

Max certainly didn't seem surprised by it. "Is everything arranged?" he asked in a matter of fact tone.

Willie nodded, and his eyes flickered towards Olsen and Walters. "Just as Colonel Hogan requested. These men will take the place of the other two waiters. In this way, they will be able to pass unnoticed by the guests. I have the jackets here."

Olsen had already started unbuttoning his greatcoat. "Is anyone likely to ask questions about us being there instead of the usual staff?" he asked.

"I think not," replied Willie. "The men you replace are not our own staff, but Gestapo men from Berlin. If anyone notices the change, they will assume you are also Gestapo, sent to take over because the first two were such poor waiters."

"What about them?" said Walters. "Where are they gonna be?"

"The Gestapo men?" Willie blinked slowly, his brow furrowing. "They will not give us any trouble."

There was no change in his tone or manner, but his words carried an implicit finality. Momentarily disconcerted, Addison glanced at Walters and Olsen; the latter, at least, seemed to have taken it in his stride, and after a few seconds, Walters shrugged, and started to remove his outer clothes

Both substitute waiters had prepared by wearing black trousers and neat white shirts underneath the Luftwaffe uniforms, so the change of outfits was speedily effected. "Okay, Addison, you wait here till it's time to meet your date," said Olsen, as he threw a dark-coloured overcoat over his red waiter's jacket. "And don't worry. We'll be on hand if you have any trouble."

"Sure." To his embarrassment, Addison's voice squeaked across half an octave; not an easy achievement with a monosyllable.

Olsen's eyes gleamed with laughter; but all he said was, "See you soon." And then he was gone, along with Walters and the little waiter.

Now he was almost on his own, the butterflies in Addison's stomach had increased their activity; it felt like they were wearing army boots and training for a route march. Max stood watching him, his cartoonish face impossible to read.

"You are married, no?" he asked, after a long pause. Addison, bewildered, stared at him, wondering how he knew. Then he flushed, and glanced at the gold band on the third finger of his left hand.

"Naturally, it is no business of mine," Max went on. "But as I know from experience, when a man has a wife at home, assignments like this, dealing with a female agent, it can become very difficult. So let me offer you some advice, as one husband to another." He paused, looking over his shoulder towards the shop where his wife was in charge, then spoke in a low voice: "Don't wear your wedding ring when you meet the young lady."

"What?"

"Just take it off, don't let anyone see it. Trust me, it's easier that way. You will get on better with the girl if she thinks you are a bachelor. Besides, if anyone else in the restaurant notices that she is having dinner with a married man, they might be curious. You do not want to attract attention."

"I'm not taking it off," replied Addison brusquely.

Max held up his hands in apology. "It is your choice." Then, after an uncomfortable pause, he added, "I have to go and help Mathilde close up. Excuse me, please. And think about it."

Addison gave a constrained smile in reply; but it faded as soon as he was alone. His eyebrows drew in as he studied the ring on his hand, his mind turning over what Max had said. Finally he slipped the ring off his finger, and with a sense of having stepped over an invisible but tangible line, placed it carefully in the inside pocket of his tunic.

Even if it was only a small help to the overall mission, it had to be done. Jen would understand. Especially if she never found out.


	6. Chapter 6

_Note: the Hauserhof must have undergone extensive structural alterations at various times throughout the series, as the lobby appears in a few different configurations. The layout in this chapter is as seen in "Axis Annie" (season 3)._

* * *

Precisely at seven, a _Luftwaffe_ major entered the lobby of the Hauserhof. He glanced around at the beige-painted walls, second-rate pictures and faded carpet which welcomed the guests of this respectable establishment. At least the dining room, set off to one side but open to view, looked more cheerful.

"Can I help you, _Herr Major_?" said the portly, middle-aged man behind the reception desk.

The officer gave a start, and turned towards him. "No, thank you," he replied curtly. "I'm here to meet a friend."

He moved towards the entrance to the dining room, aware of the receptionist's eyes following him. He could be another Gestapo man. After all, Willie couldn't be expected to take care of all of them single-handed. But before the major could make up his mind about it, a movement at the edge of his field of vision caught his attention. Coming down the stairs, very elegant in sea-green satin, was his date (darn it, even he was thinking like that now).

She paused when she saw him, then with a constrained smile continued her descent; but just as he came forward to meet her, somehow she missed her footing, stumbled, and fell down the last two steps, straight into his arms.

_I wonder if she hits the deck at the start of every rendezvous_, he thought, setting her back on her feet, while a big, fair-haired man who had come downstairs just behind her hurried forward to help.

"My dear little sister, are you hurt?" he exclaimed. "I warned you about those shoes."

"It wasn't the shoes, Hugo. I tripped over my skirt." Blushing scarlet, Fräulein Hoffnung let go of Addison. To his relief, she seemed more embarrassed than injured.

Her brother seemed dissatisfied, as well he might, for the high-heeled pumps on her feet could indeed have been responsible for her rapid descent; elegant, but hazardous. "You should be more careful, Käthe. You could have been very badly injured, if this officer had not been on hand to...ow!" He finished on a squeak, as one of those pretty, dangerous heels came down with considerable force on his toe. An icy blue glare reinforced the message. "Oh...ah, of course," he went on hastily. "I mean, it was lucky that our old friend, Major...Major..."

"Schmidt," said Addison, giving the name on his identity card.

"Yes, indeed." Hugo grasped his hand and shook it with vigour.

The receptionist was watching them. He might be Gestapo, or he might not. Either way, if he fell for this performance it'd be a miracle. Getting out of his sight was probably a good idea. Addison freed his hand from Hugo's grip, and gestured towards the dining room. "Would you care to join us for dinner?"

"I have another engagement, unfortunately. But I have time for a glass of _Schnaps_," said Hugo.

Addison took a good look around as they entered the restaurant, with its red-and-white checked tablecloths and little vases of artificial flowers on the tables. Walters had taken on the role of barman, and looked as if he'd never done anything else; unlike Willie, who was serving with all the skill of a newly drafted soldier on his first KP.

Olsen came forward, with just the right mixture of superciliousness and servility, to greet the new arrivals. "_Guten Abend._ Table for three? This way, please."

He ushered them through the main part of the restaurant, towards a table set off behind a latticework partition. "You can talk privately here," he murmured; then, in a more normal tone, "Would you care to order any drinks?"

Hugo looked at his sister. "White wine, Käthe? I will have _Schnaps_. And you, my friend?"

"The same," said Addison. Then, as Olsen left, he turned to the girl. Her brother's pet name suited her much better than the stiff formality of Katharina; but he didn't think he should take liberties. "Do you have any news for me, _Fräulein_?"

"Unfortunately not. The men from the Ministry have not yet made a decision." She glanced at Hugo, who shrugged. He was very like his sister, even down to the equine profile, slightly offset by a pair of steel-rimmed spectacles. First impressions suggested he had many of the character traits of an overly friendly golden retriever.

"They haven't been able to agree," he explained. "Colonel Hesse favours our design, Professor Aurich supports the Firebird. And Herr Krackendorf, from the accounting department, is waiting to see who will offer the highest bribe." He gestured discreetly towards a man who had just entered the dining room and gone straight to the bar; a thin, colourless individual, with a moustache like a desiccated caterpillar stretched across his upper lip. "As a matter of fact, my bureau chief and I are dining with him tonight, in his private suite, to see if we can come to a mutually beneficial agreement."

Käthe gave a soft, dejected sigh, gazing at Addison with wide blue eyes. "I am very sorry. We have no further information for you after all, so this has been a waste of your time."

"No, it hasn't," said Addison, anxious to reassure her as well as her brother. "It doesn't matter which plane gets the go-ahead. The idea is to hit 'em both, so the Krauts - I mean, the Nazis don't have one left to fall back on. We've got the locations for the Crow, but we have to find out where the targets are for the Firebird. You don't have any idea?"

"I'm afraid not." Hugo's features folded into anxiety. "I might be able to find out. Their project leader has approached me more than once, trying to convince me to join his organisation."

"He has made advances to me, too," added Käthe, pursing up her lips.

"But even if I accepted the offer," Hugo went on, "it would take time. Several weeks, at the very least." He seemed to have more to say, but at sight of Olsen returning with their drinks, he held it back.

"It's okay, he's with us," said Addison. "Olsen, this is Fräulein Hoffnung, and her brother."

Olsen acknowledged the introduction with the slightest of nods, but his eyebrows went up at sight of Käthe. A smile twitched at the corners of his mouth, and the glance he threw at Addison was alive with sly laughter. "Got anything?" he asked, in a low murmur.

Addison's features tightened into the nearest to a scowl he could manage, but with the girl right there, all he could do was ignore the insinuation. "Not yet."

Even as he spoke, his eyes turned back towards Krackendorf. He hesitated for a moment, then looked up at Olsen. "That guy at the bar - he's one of the big shots from Berlin."

"They sure don't make big shots like they used to," remarked Olsen.

Addison disregarded the interruption, and continued with his own line of thought. "I was just thinking, about what Colonel Hogan said. You know, about them making some kind of dossier for the presentation."

"Yes, of course," exclaimed Hugo, brightening. "We presented each of the Ministry representatives with a full report on our project, and the other group must have done the same. Do you think perhaps you can capture one of these files?"

"Maybe." Olsen, studying Krackendorf covertly, made a quick but thorough assessment. "He doesn't seem to have anything with him. If he's left his papers in his hotel room, and if one of us can get in there for a couple of minutes..."

"I don't think you will have the chance. It will only be a few minutes before he will return to his suite."

"Hoffnung and his boss are having dinner with him," Addison put in.

"But that still leaves Professor Aurich and Colonel Hesse," Hugo continued. "Each of them has his own suite on the third floor. I know for a fact that Hesse will be dining here tonight, with one of his old academy classmates, and I believe Professor Aurich has gone out for the evening, to experience the local life. Last night he experienced enough of it to keep him out till three in the morning."

"So we should have plenty of time to search both their rooms," said Olsen. "What about security?"

"There are two Luftwaffe men on guard in the corridor," replied Käthe. "They do not allow anyone to pass unless they have a reason to be there. Also, none of the other rooms are occupied. One of the chambermaids told me all the guests had been moved. Even the young couple who had booked the bridal suite were turned away."

"Well, I guess that's gonna put a damper on the honeymoon," remarked Olsen. He thought for a bit. "Having no other guests around means less chance of someone catching us up there. So all we have to do is get past the guards, and that shouldn't be too hard."

Addison tilted his head. "You got an idea?"

"I think so." Olsen turned to Hugo. "If Krackendorf's invited you to dinner, that means someone's got to bring the food up to his room. Seems to me the guards will let the room service waiter past with no questions asked. Once I'm up there - it better be me - it'll be a cinch to get into the other suites. How long before you meet with him?"

Hugo squinted across the room. "As soon as my supervisor arrives...ah, he has just come in. I must go. Good evening, gentlemen, and good luck to you." He finished his _Schnaps_, stood up, kissed his sister's cheek, and hurried off to his engagement.

Addison turned his own glass in his fingers. "How are you going to get inside the suites?" he asked diffidently.

"Master key, if Willie can get hold of it. If he can't, I'll have to pick the locks. Too bad Newkirk's not here, he's better at it than I am." Olsen gave a soft chuckle. He seemed pretty confident, but if he got caught up there, things could get real messy. Addison's stomach tightened as he weighed up the risk. Not that it mattered what he thought. Olsen was in charge of this operation; it was his call.

Hugo and his dinner companions were leaving. They paused briefly at the entrance to let a couple of officers come in, then went on their way. But Addison's eyes fixed on the new arrivals. "Olsen..." he faltered.

Käthe regarded him with a puzzled frown, then followed the line of his gaze. "That is Colonel Hesse," she said. "The other one must be his old friend. I have never seen him before."

"Oh, crap," muttered Olsen, turning his head so as not to be seen.

Addison had forgotten he was supposed to breathe; either that or the shock sent him light-headed. Like Olsen, he knew the second _Luftwaffe_ officer only too well.

_If I'd known Colonel Klink was coming to this party,_ he thought, _I'd have stayed at home._


	7. Chapter 7

"What do we do now?" said Addison, watching through the latticework screen, as Willie showed Klink and his friend to a table, right in the middle of the room.

Olsen weighed up the risk, and came to a decision. "We go ahead. He doesn't know most of us by sight, and even the ones he does...well, if Carter can stick on a fake moustache and convince Klink he's Hitler, the rest of us should be safe enough."

"I do not understand." Käthe glanced at Olsen, then turned her gaze back to Addison. "This officer with Colonel Hesse - do you know him?"

It was pretty obvious who she thought was in charge. But Olsen didn't allow so much as a glimmer of amusement to appear as he fielded the question. "He's crossed our path before. But don't worry, he won't recognise us. He's not that smart. The way I see it, the only thing that could go wrong is if his buddy can't stand talking to him any more, and decides to call it a night before I get out of his room. Addison, you stay put, and if it looks like he's breaking up the party early, head him off."

Addison's eyes widened as he grasped what this would entail. Then he pressed his lips together, and the look he directed at Olsen said more than any amount of verbal argument. All he said out loud was, "Anything else?"

He had pushed his empty glass aside, and for a second Olsen caught sight of his left hand. _Where's your wedding ring? Oh, Henry, you sly dog..._

"You might as well make the most of it," he said. "It's not often we get to eat out. Anyway, it's more convincing if you order a meal. Willie says the _Gulasch_ is pretty good."

"Whatever you say," murmured Addison. But Käthe shook her head, wrinkling her nose. It was kind of cute.

"Please, I would rather not," she said. "Too much paprika makes me sneeze. I will have the fried trout."

"One fried trout, coming right up. How about some wine?" suggested Olsen. "Seeing as you need to stay on the ball, I recommend the house white. It's pretty rough, so you won't want to drink a lot of it."

"Have they got a red?" asked Addison.

"Yeah, they do. It's an interesting little number. Tastes of ammonia. Better stick to the white." Olsen gave his buddy a wink and a grin, bowed slightly to the girl, and sauntered off. In spite of his air of confidence, however, he made sure he stayed out of Klink's line of sight, taking a roundabout path to reach the bar, where Walters was lurking behind the row of beer taps.

"What's Klink doing here?" he muttered, as soon as Olsen was within hearing distance.

"Probably boring the pants off his old classmate," said Olsen. "Just stay cool, and don't draw attention to yourself, and everything'll be fine. Addison's keeping an eye on him."

"If he can take 'em off his date. Man, if that's what a horse looks like..."

He let this promising beginning go, as Willie left Klink's table and came to the bar. "A large gin," he said. "Top shelf - the _Wacholder_."

Walters fetched the bottle, and poured a generous measure of the clear, aromatic liquor; and watched as Willie, without ceremony, tossed back the entire glassful, closed his eyes, shuddered, and took a deep breath. "Now, a glass of _Schnaps_ for the Kommandant, and a cognac for Colonel Hesse."

"Willie, can you get hold of a master key?" said Olsen. "There's two of the Berlin brass accounted for right now. Hesse is here, and one of the others is out on the town. If I can get into their rooms, maybe I can get hold of a copy of the Firebird file."

"The reception clerk has a key," mumbled Willie after a moment of thought. "It will be easy for me to get it when I take him his nine o'clock _Kirschwasser_."

"By then, it might be too late. I don't think we can wait that long."

Willie sighed, and picked up his tray. "Most evenings, neither can the reception clerk. You will have the key in five minutes." He went off with the Kommandant's _Schnaps_.

"What are we gonna do about Klink?" said Walters.

"Nothing. As long as he's keeping his buddy occupied, he's doing us a favour." Olsen glanced over his shoulder. Klink was sitting with his back towards the bar. Going by the jaunty waggling of his head and the expansive gestures of his long thin hands, it was pretty obvious; as usual, the Kommandant was talking about himself. There was probably a limit to how much of this Hesse would put up with, but he didn't seem ready to throw in the towel yet.

"I'll be right back," murmured Olsen, and took himself to the kitchen.

His entry caused some consternation amongst the staff. Just as Willie had said, everyone believed the two unfamiliar waiters were Gestapo men. The under-chef stopped in the middle of a _flambé_, and a crash from somewhere in the far corner gave evidence of a catastrophic lapse in concentration on the part of the dish-washer.

"One order of fried trout, and one _Gulasch_," said Olsen. "And you should probably do something about that pan, before the whole place goes up."

The under-chef uttered a squeak, and snatched up a saucepan lid to cover the flames, while his superior broke into angry, disjointed recrimination. Olsen waited patiently until the fire was extinguished, then gravely repeated the order.

"One trout, one _Gulasch_," confirmed the head chef. "Rudi, Hans, see to that at once. Anything else?"

"One other matter." Olsen beckoned the man to one side, and spoke in a low, mysterious voice. "You are preparing a room service order for one of the guests on the third floor."

"Yes, Herr Krackendorf, in suite 3B, has invited two other guests to dine with him," replied the chef. He glanced around surreptitiously, before going on in a hoarse whisper: "Is something wrong?"

"No, not at all," said Olsen. "Just let me know when it's ready. I will take it up to his suite."

"Yes, of course, sir." The cook, torn between apprehension and curiosity, threw caution to the winds: "If I might ask, is this some kind of Gestapo inquiry?"

Olsen gave him a small, distant smile. "If I told you that, you would know too much. And you know what happens to those who know too much, don't you?"

Leaving it at that, he went back to the dining room. "It's all set," he told Walters. "As long as Willie can get hold of the key, that is."

Walters, sniffing at the aroma from the open bottle of _Kirschwasser_, took a moment to answer. "He's gone to give the reception clerk his pick-me-up. Should be back any minute. You know, the wine-makers in Barracks 3 could make a killing if they set up to make this stuff."

"_Killing_ is the right word." Olsen took the bottle away from him, and studied the label. "That stuff's about 80 proof. Our boys start playing around with it, they could wipe out our whole operation. Better not give 'em ideas."

He set the bottle down, as Willie came scuttling back from his errand, and furtively placed a key on the bar-top. "The master key," he mumbled. "Colonel Hesse is in Suite 3C, Professor Aurich in 3D. The bridal suite, 3A, is vacant."

Olsen took the key and slipped it into his pocket. "Okay, this is the plan. Two of the Air Ministry guys are out of the way. Krackendorf''s having dinner in his suite with Hoffnung and one of his associates. I'll take their order up to the third floor. Once I'm there, I'll get into the other rooms and grab a copy of the Firebird presentation folder."

"What if you get caught up there?" asked Walters, leaning on the counter.

Olsen's lips pinched. "You know why I like working alone, Walters? Because I never ask myself questions like that."

He glanced towards the kitchen door, where the head chef, by a series of grimaces and gesticulations, was trying to catch his eye. "Looks like Krackendorf's meal is ready, so I gotta go. It shouldn't take more than half an hour, say forty minutes at most. If I'm not back by then, you and Addison make yourself scarce."

_Not a chance_. Walters didn't need to say it; the tightening of his facial muscles made it perfectly clear what he was thinking. "And what do I do in the meantime?" he asked instead.

Olsen gave him a grin. "Take Addison a bottle of the house white. And don't worry about Klink. He won't even know we're here."

* * *

_Wacholder: a type of gin flavoured with juniper_

_Kirschwasser: a fruit brandy distilled from cherries_


End file.
